


The Summer After Siberia

by FatlockFills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Eventual mpreg, Fatlock, Feeding, Incest, M/M, Mild Trauma, Mpreg, Omega Mycroft, Omegaverse, Secret Agent!Myc, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Younger than Show, a/b/o dynamics, dubcon, feederism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlockFills/pseuds/FatlockFills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had a spectacularly short career as a secret agent, and now he's home to recover. He's been gone for just long enough for Sherlock to properly grow up. Holmescest, Omegaverse, Fat kink, Dub-con, Pursuing Sherlock, and more to follow eventually. My first really multi-chapter fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Mycroft's stint in the field lasted one year, eight months, and sixteen days. It ended in a blaze of glory that would put James Bond to shame, and above all proved that Omegas totally did belong in the field. He didn't end it; the Beta he was meeting got cold feet at the last second. It turned out that, when he was looking down the barrel of a sleek gun, stripped to a tank top in a bitter Siberian winter, the fillings in his teeth gathering ice, he wasn't as brave as he'd been in training. He was shot, Mycroft was shot, and almost two years of undercover work on Mycroft's personal part went down the drain. It was five years more work lost to the agency on top of that, but as the man who ruined it was already dead there was no point in demoting him. Mycroft played dead after a fairly minor flesh wound; there was no act to save him, no brilliant plan, just the arrogance of a ratty little man whose name and face were branded into Mycroft's mind. The arrogance that told him not to double-tap the corpses, and so left Mycroft alive. Dragging himself through the snow on his way to the safe house, more than twenty miles before he was able to commandeer a car with a flat tire from the side of the road and start his many jumps to safety in England, Mycroft resolved that one day he would make that man know what a fly felt when a little boy destroyed it one waving leg at a time.


	2. Chapter One

Mycroft sipped his tea and listened to everything that had happened in the last two years. Which cousins had had babies (most of them), which Omegas Sherlock had courted (none of them, really; he'd gone on a handful of chilly dates with reluctant Omegas, and now rolled his eyes as Mummy recounted them), and murmured congratulations when Mummy announced she was putting out another book—going back to pure mathematics, her roots. "I don't suppose there's much glory in it," she said, "but it will be a required text for more than few classes and that will bring in something."

"It's good that you're spending time on your craft again," he said, reaching for another scone. 

"If I don't, who will?" Mummy sighed and poured more tea for everyone, stirring two lumps of sugar into Mycroft's without bothering to ask her oldest son. "Can't leave the field entirely to the Alphas, can I?" 

"Well, some things are better for Alphas to take on," Father said, and his eyes cut to Mycroft for half a second, smile a little sheepish. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. 

His family knew that he was being deployed overseas when he left; Sherlock, barely 18, had been the only one to realize that his brother was a secret agent and not merely a brilliant accountant. Now that Mycroft had returned, his family was allowed to know 1. That he had been operating covertly for the benefit of their nation (it sounded much better than "spying"), 2. That he was shot, in a situation that he had made sound far less harrowing than the actual event, and 3. He was returning with a raise, a commendation, and a high level promotion for his trouble. He'd never have to be a secret agent again. He left aside the fact that he never would pass the physical again; there was a puckered scar at his waist now, and a somewhat limited range of motion on that side, from the hip. It was in the grey area; not bad enough to bother him much in day to day life, but enough to keep him out of the field. Mycroft was not sorry to see this phase of his life go; he'd always been aiming for the top. He just thought it would take him another ten years.   
"Mycroft's a national hero," Sherlock spoke up for the first time. Mycroft stared, not sure if he was earnest or sarcastic. Sherlock's hair hung into his eyes, and he looked dour most of the time, and in the two-ish years Mycroft had been gone he'd hit his last Alpha growth spurt. He still wasn't as tall as Mycroft and likely never would be, now, but he had gained muscle and an imposing height. "That's why he gets a medal and a promotion."

"Well, the medal's also to comfort me at night." Mycroft quipped, and sipped his sweet, hot tea. 

"It won't always be the only thing," Mummy soothed, and Sherlock nodded along unexpectedly. 

"It won't," Mycroft's little brother said, in that same half sarcastic, half earnest way.   
Mycroft drained his cup and set it down. "Well, for now being home is enough. I'm going to settle in, if you'll forgive me—" he rose, and picked up one bag. Both his father and Sherlock reached for the other, and there was a brief stand-off; Sherlock looked hotly embarrassed to have been caught helping his brother, and when Father sat back down at the table Sherlock threw the bag (Mycroft winced at the thought of the price of the electronics in there) and stalked up the stairs. Mycroft followed him at a more sedate pace. 

 

"You're not telling them everything," Sherlock was already sitting on Mycroft's bed when he arrived. The bag was at the foot and Sherlock sat against the head, legs out, back against the headboard. 

"They're my parents. Of course not. It would just worry them." Mycroft set his bag down at his desk and turned to face Sherlock. "What's the point?"

"You haven't told me either." Sherlock leaned forward, but Mycroft just shook his head. 

"I have a vault for those kinds of memories. Why open it?" 

Sherlock sucked his lip for a moment. "Can I see your scar?" he asked, changing the topic. 

Mycroft hesitated for a half-second, and then pulled his loose cardigan off over his head. Why had he paused? What was he thinking? It was inevitable, of course, that this would happen one day, but when he'd left Sherlock had been very much a child and just now he had paused like an Alpha had asked to see him half naked. He didn't blush because it was beneath him. He did half turn away as he started at the top button on his collar and slowly went down the line. Halfway down his torso, on the left side, there was a puckered scar as long as his thumb, the edges slightly uneven because he'd moved so much following the injury that his flesh had torn. It was a dark shade of pink, better than when it had looked like a giant scab, but still ugly. Sherlock drew in a quick breath and let it out. 

"It's bigger than I thought it would be. You made it sound like… nothing." 

"I barely felt it at the time," Mycroft admitted, relaxing under the Alpha's gaze. "But no. It was fairly serious once I got treatment. Don't repeat that to Mummy." 

"May I touch it?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft hesitated, and then stepped slowly to the edge of the bed. 

"It doesn't feel like much," he said. "Rubbery skin, a little raised."

"Will it hurt you?"

"Not if you're gentle." Mycroft held his body at an angle, scar just a bit beyond Sherlock's reach. "As I recall, patience and gentleness have never come easily to you."

"I've changed since you've been gone. Matured." Sherlock looked up through his lashes at his brother, through his thick curls, and leaned forward deliberately. His long, thin fingers settled on the side of Mycroft's torso, against the muscle beneath the pit of his scar, and waited. His hand was cooler than Mycroft's skin, but warmer than the air. "I can be gentle now."

"Go ahead, then," Mycroft said, voice inexplicably soft. Sherlock's fingers crept up, brushing first all the skin around the wound; Mycroft could barely feel that. It would be a long time before he got sensation in his skin back, if he ever fully did. It was strange, feeling the pressure and heat but not the specifics of Sherlock's touch. When Sherlock was brave enough to run his fingers lightly over the scar itself, Mycroft could feel it even less. So it had to be the temperature in the room that made his skin break out in pimples, his breath to come a little faster, a little shallower, thinning the intake so his torso didn't heave beneath Sherlock's touch, but trembled. 

It lasted a few silent minutes; Sherlock seemed intent on examining the wound from all sides, from all angles. His touch was probing, but remained gentle through to the end. At the very end he pressed just a bit harder, and pain bit into Mycroft's side. He gave one start, one heavy in-draw of breath, and Sherlock's hand flew off of him. 

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, anxiously, on his feet and close to his brother in a scrambling second. Mycroft shook his head as the pain settled down to a dull ache that would fade completely in another few minutes. 

"No. No, I'm fine. It's just still a little tender, as you can imagine." 

"I shouldn't have pressed," Sherlock said. 

"No. I think it was better with a lighter touch…" Mycroft stayed for a second and then gently took Sherlock's hand from his arm, turning away to begin buttoning up the shirt again, "But it was an accident. I'm fine; by supper I won't even feel it anymore." 

"Mummy's made a roast," Sherlock said, but Mycroft's patience with society had been utterly exhausted. He looked at the bed, soft and large as it had been since his childhood, beneath a heavy curtain to keep out the chill in this nice but old cottage, and thought only of bed. Whatever exchange had taken place, whatever he had felt—whatever had stirred when Sherlock—he could resist the pull of bed no longer. 

"I'll get up in time to sample it," he said, turning a polite, closed-off face to his brother, and watching him take the hint. 

"See you then," Sherlock muttered, and left the room. 

Mycroft fell into bed, still clothed, and sleepily pulled his shirt up. In the dimness of his room, his hand found the skin Sherlock had touched, traced the new-familiar pattern of his scar beneath his fingers. When he drifted to sleep he could still see the look on Sherlock's face; the hooded eyes, the set to his jaw, the way his fingers moved with deliberation over the scar, like when he was done examining it to his satisfaction he would be able to map it out, draw it on some chart, feel it in the dark. Mycroft didn't feel it when his movements stilled and he slept the deep, still sleep of those still healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No really, the kink is coming.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that trauma cannot simply be ignored forever.

Mycroft had been home for a week when the first nightmare happened. In it, he was sitting at a black metal table with diamonds cut through around the edges. He recognized it without trouble; it had sat outside a coffee shop he'd frequented in Siberia. Water ran over the surface in front of him, spreading out, pouring from nowhere. Only when he blotted it with a napkin it came up heavy and red and sticky. The table was on snow (suddenly but without transition, in the way that dream logic held) and the dark drops fell onto the snow, crimson and brilliant, and when he stood up the movement ripped something inside of him, and pain flooded up; pain that existed in the dream world for a hard moment, and then he was home in bed. His side was aching a dull but uncomfortable ache. His breath came too hard and fast, and then ease. 

His as needed pain medication was just very large doses of Ibuprofen now. He shook two horse pills into his hand and made for the kitchen; a glass of water and a quick swallow sent them down. The pain was fading now; he'd probably tossed and turned in his sleep and set it to aching. He reached for the refrigerator door and tugged it open. The pale yellow light lit the kitchen oddly; he took a few deep breaths to settle himself. It wasn't odd; he was on edge. He thought of blood dripping down the black outside of his parents' sleek, modern fridge, not distinguishable from water until it hit the floor, and swallowed hard. He grabbed a wrapped plate of sliced beef and shut the door forcefully. The food would settle his stomach after the pills, and he wasn't going to think any more about a dream that required no interpretation whatsoever. 

But simply wanting the dreams to stop didn't make them stop. Resolving to think no more about them didn't stop them from coming. Every night he couldn't have a normal dream without snow and crimson invading it. He bled to death in a bathtub of melting ice, embarrassed himself with a wide band of sticky blood over an ambassador's fine white table cloth ("So sorry," he muttered in Russian in the dream, trying to hide the sludge with his jacket while the Russian Ambassador's plump Omega mate rushed to the bathroom), and spent one memorable dream running from room to room in a large, dark house—except it was snowing out every window, and he couldn't run very well with this stitch in his side, eating through to the bone. 

He slept the night through only once in the next ten days, by having more than he should have of sherry that evening and letting the alcohol drag him down. He didn't wake until 7 the next morning, pissed for what seemed like forever, and decided that he wasn't going to touch alcohol again for a while. That had been just too… easy. 

So then what? It was obvious what was happening. He knew the advice that he'd give to anyone else: find someone far away from the agency to talk to. A therapist, a trauma counselor, someone. You just got shot, for fuck's sake. But that was the advice that he'd give to anyone else. He couldn't. His pride wouldn't let him, his assurance that no trauma therapist alive could offer him insights he didn't already have didn't let him, and so he set about finding something else to make his nights more bearable. He wasn't sleeping well, and constant afternoon naps weren't doing much to encouraging hovering Mummy and Father that he was fine. 

There was a pattern, however. In the 14 nights since that first dream, he'd woken up 13. Of those 13, 6 had brought with them actual pain. Ibuprofen had fixed that, and then he'd gone right back to sleep—and slept well. The other nights he'd tossed and turned all night, despite not being in pain. 

When he woke next, he had a plan. This dream had not been coherent; he just woke with a memory of white on red and a fear running like mice along his bones. Sometimes there were elaborate scenes, and sometimes just flashes and fear. He shook off the initial moment of paralysis; caught his breath, and forced himself up and out of his bed. Then he went down the hall, to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. 

There were two small bread rolls left from dinner. He cut them open and smeared them with mayonnaise, slices of cheese, and cold cuts from the fridge. Lettuce, tomatoes, and mustard followed, and when he ate them with a glass of milk he felt a little calmer. His stomach unclenched and went to work instead. His mind cleared. He was fine. 

He was still hungry. A little snack had woken a larger hunger, so he fished around in the fridge some more. Two slices of pie remained; Mummy's raspberry pie was to die for, with extra thick filling and a flakey crust she spent all day folding two pounds of butter into. 

When he finished those he rose, sleep finally creeping in, and congratulated himself on a plan well mastered. By the time he put the dishes in the washer and made his way back to bed he was yawning, comforted by the warmth and fullness his large midnight snack had given him. Obviously, he wouldn't do this every night, but it was a good stop gap… he was asleep before he could think on it further. 

The dreams didn't want to get better; Mycroft didn't want to talk to anyone. They were less coherent now, but still full of dread, and fear. He double-bolted the vault in his mind palace and bolted half a pot pie at midnight, not stopping until he was oppressively full. That soothed him enough to sleep afterwards. 

\--------

"There's been something of a delay," Mycroft told his mother over dinner a few nights later. Father was out of town and Sherlock was consumed with an experiment in the basement, which he'd successfully petitioned his parents to turn into a lab. Now that he was well on his way through a Uni degree in Chemistry they'd decided he probably wasn't going to burn the house down. 

"What do you mean, dear?" 

"I was supposed to replace someone who wanted to retire. At work." Mycroft spooned more creamed spinach onto his plate, digging in. "But then things got a bit more… active, and now's not the time for a personnel change. They don't want me in for another two months."

"Well, you're staying here, of course. You're always welcome." She beamed, and Mycroft allowed himself a smile. 

"Thank you."

"It's good to have you here, and I like to see you looking so healthy."

Mycroft swallowed a lump of buttery mashed potatoes that had suddenly turned to ash in his mouth. His mother was still beaming, but she'd given him a once over, and her approval was clear—and he knew why. He was an Omega, and naturally given to an Omega's body—including a higher body fat percentage. He'd been plump growing up, but lost it all for his secret service job. Now he was almost two months out of the active field, but also eating a big snack every night and then going directly to sleep. His hips were a trifle wider now, and his cheeks a bit rounder. 

"Thank you," he managed, and when he wanted to reach for thirds at the end of the meal he restrained himself. 

\---------

He went to bed hungry at 11pm, and woke at 1am with a gnawing pit in his belly and the cold black eye of a rifle (which was stupid, it had been a handgun, a pistol, and ordinary pistol so why was it a huge rifle in his dream?) dancing before his eyes. This was the worst one; this time he'd felt it, he'd felt the bullet hit, and he was shaking as he threw a bathrobe on over his pajamas and headed for the kitchen. 

Mycroft tore the fridge open and grabbed the first thing that came to light—the creamed spinach from dinner. It wasn't good cold but he couldn't wait to heat it; he grabbed a spoon and ate, filling his mouth and barely pausing for breath. There were potatoes to eat after that, but not much; Sherlock must have gotten his dinner, part of his mind whispered while the rest focused on getting as much into his stomach as he could. There weren't that many leftovers; nightly munching had prevented them from piling up, and now Mycroft was scrambling to find something edible on its own; he pulled out bread, condiments, cold cuts, eating them quickly and blinking back tears that threatened when he stopped, lost in his own world until--

"I knew you were eating them." 

Mycroft didn't jump; his nerves had gotten stronger during his time as a secret agent. He set the plate back on the counter and turned around. Sherlock had come up from the basement. There were dark smudges under his eyes, but they were alert and crawling all over the elder Holmes. 

"You're going to have to give some background…"

"Mummy told me to stop eating all the leftovers up. She's been trying to get enough together to make a stir fry some night, or a casserole, but they've been vanishing too quickly. She assumed me, which means Father denied it. And since I didn't, that leaves you. Plus…" 

"Plus what?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, and he didn't hide the once over he gave to Mycroft's frame, lingering on his sauce-smudged lips and the subtle swell of his middle. "Plus about 12 pounds, I'd say. You're lucky you're tall, Mycroft."

"Shut up!"

"You just can't control yourself I guess, Omega after all—"

"Shut UP! I need it to sleep!" The second it was out of his mouth Mycroft regret it. Sherlock's eyebrows rose; for a second there was silence and Mycroft wasn't sure Sherlock was going to pursue it anymore. The years they had shared everything were long behind them. That might just be too intimate…

"You need to eat to sleep?" Sherlock asked, running his fingers through that mop of curls and tangling them more. 

"I… It seems to counteract the nightmares." There was a moment of defiance, but Sherlock didn't argue. He turned to the stove instead. There was a big frying pan on the top, and he grabbed the butter dish and cut a chunk, putting it into the heat and letting it melt. 

"I'm guessing it's about the… incident." Eggs came from the fridge. Sherlock cracked them expertly, mixing with a dash of milk. Three eggs. When Sherlock looked up Mycroft didn't say anything, and after a moment's hesitation Sherlock added a fourth egg. He whisked them together, putting the thick mixture into the pan. Salt, pepper. Mycroft didn't speak. "And so you've been… eating all the leftovers. There are worse ways to self-medicate. Alcohol… Worse things. Worse ways to get to sleep." 

"What do you know about worse things?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock's thin body tensed for a moment, but he just rolled a shoulder. 

"You know. Worse things. Things that get someone to sleep next to you, or get you kicked out of your new job because they don't have a maternity plan. There are worse ways to fill that gap than food." Sherlock looked for cheese in the fridge, but they were out; it was scribbled on the pad on the front of the black door. He grabbed a little extra butter and turned it into scrambled eggs, heavy on the butter, instead of an omelet. 

It smelled fantastic. It was so simple, so… easy. Mycroft didn't know why he hadn't thought of that; he'd been so desperate to eat that he'd been eating cold cuts with his fingers, dragging them through mayo like a dip when he did anything at all. Sherlock's food was so… When his brother slid the steaming mass over to him, he dug in without thought. It was warm going down, soothing, easy on his stomach and easy to eat. Plain but hardy. 

"Are you going to tell me to get help?" Mycroft asked, not looking up. A clink answered him; a glass of cold milk. He drank it eagerly. 

"No. There's no help for either of us."   
He looked up sharply, but Sherlock was already turned away, heading back downstairs. "Aren't you going to bed?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock's answer sounded hollow from the stairs. 

"I'm at a critical stage of research."

Sherlock had always felt his difference was a bad thing. Mycroft swallowed the last of the eggs, washed his mouth with a gulp of milk, and put his dishes into the sink. His stomach was warm and full when he made his way to bed, and he dreamed without direction; not bad, but not easy. 

\----

Mycroft sat back from his dinner plate with a sigh. He was uncomfortably full; his mind was in his room, with his pajama trousers and a good book. He didn't think he'd have trouble sleeping tonight. Despite his defensiveness last night, he'd come to the conclusion that the midnight snacks needed to end. He needed to sleep through the night, and as he only knew one way to do that… He shifted in his chair, wishing he could tug his trousers down below the curve of his belly. He was stuffed. He'd had thirds; it was pot pie again today, one of his mother's favorite dishes. The pie was gone now; Mycroft had half of it, at least, leaving his parents and brother a slice each. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he'd left them plenty of bread and spinach to eat, so Mycroft refused to feel bad. 

"Well, Mummy," Father said, "I think everyone's had dinner. Have any dessert?" 

"Brownies and fruit," she answered, and rose to bring the dishes in from the kitchen. 

"Had enough, Mycroft?" Sherlock said softly beside him, looking at his brother out of the corner of his eye. 

"Of course not," Mycroft said a touch too loudly, and forced himself to sit up and eat dessert. He was going to sleep through the night, no matter what. He wouldn't be shamed by Sherlock for this. 

By the time the last sticky, sweet bite disappeared down his throat his stomach was stretched, pressing against his white shirt. He thought he would burst if he ate another bite. As soon as possible he disappeared into his rooms, letting a hot shower relax his abs; when they finally let go he was left with a visibly distended belly. He was in bed an hour after dinner, book in one hand, the other absently rubbing over his stomach under his pajamas until he fell asleep. 

\---  
2:00 am. 

2:00 am.

2:00 am.

2:01 am. 

He couldn't sleep. He'd woken from a dreamless sleep, but he couldn't sleep now. He wasn't full anymore. He could hardly believe it. Still, he'd last eaten about 5 hours before… But it was so much! He was… and wasn't… hungry. His stomach was silent, but lying in the dark was nearly unbearable. He couldn't drag his mind away from the kitchen downstairs. It was one of those losing fights he recognized almost immediately; he was going to get up and go to the kitchen. The only question was how long he could hold out before he did so. 

2:01 am. 

2:02 am. 

He got out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Just something light. 

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Mycroft was surprised to see that Sherlock was already there. A plate of breakfast sausages sat out, a coating of grease over them winking in the light. Toast with a melted splat of butter on it. There was a pan on the stove, merry splatters of grease flashing up every time Sherlock gave it a little shake. 

"I knew you'd be down," Sherlock said. The dark smudges under his eyes were more prominent, but he flashed Mycroft a smile that had more warmth in it than his brother was used to by now. 

"I didn't," Mycroft said. 

"With the way you stuffed yourself at dinner, I assumed the dreams were worse." 

"So you made me…"

"I'm helping you cope." The merest shadow of embarrassment crossed Sherlock's face. "I… really only know how to make breakfast foods. The omelet's still on the stove." 

Mycroft looked at the plate of full sized sausages; four, a whole package. A ridiculous amount. The toast. The smell of frying onions as the omelet came together. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he sat down and spread jam on the toast. He couldn't stand it dry, and even butter wasn't enough to soften it for him. "This is so much," he said. 

"You need it," Sherlock said. 

For a few blissful minutes Mycroft lost himself in eating. Sherlock didn't say much; he gave Mycroft a glass of cold milk and kept it full; he put the piping hot omelet on a plate (it was huge, four eggs at least) and watched as Mycroft ate. And ate. He was still feeling a tad bloated from dinner, but this new meal warmed him all the way through. And ate. Sherlock brought him another two slices of toast, and Mycroft put the omelet on them until he couldn't anymore. He'd had 3 sausages, half the omelet, and three slices of toast. He'd had enough milk that he was half sure his belly was going to slosh if he stood up suddenly. He was full, back in that uncomfortable post-dessert state. 

"Finish up," Sherlock said. It was the first time he'd broken the clink of utensils on plate in a quarter of an hour, at least. He stood on the other side of the counter from Mycroft, hands gripping the edge. "Eat it all." 

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't. It's so… You made so much, Sherlock." 

"You want it." Sherlock left that side of the table, circled around, stood behind Mycroft. His breath ghosted over the back of Mycroft's neck, and goosebumps broke out all over his body. Sherlock's hands, thin and long, slid around to rest on his stomach. Mycroft tensed, tried to suck his belly in, and found that he couldn't. Back to back meals had made him bloated, stretched; his abs just felt hot and tight as he tried to bring his distended middle in line. Sherlock chuckled; the throaty sound set Mycroft on edge, but he didn't move. He didn't pull away. "Eat," Sherlock instructed. One hand prodded the side of Mycroft's belly, sending a pressure on the edge of pain, but not quite over it, through the swollen mass. 

Mycroft ate. Some part of his mind had gone still and quiet; he was lost in the sensations. Greasy sausage down his throat, peppery egg, gooey with cheese, cold gulps of milk to cleanse his palette. Sherlock's hands on his belly. One slipped under his pajama shirt after a few minutes; the skin to skin contact made him shiver. There was a thin layer of chub on his belly he hadn't had two months ago; beneath it, just tight pressure. 

Chew. Swallow. Sherlock's steady breath on his neck. Pleasure with an edge of pain as he forced down another bite. Sherlock's fingers playing over his tight skin, framing his bulging belly, poking him a little when he slowed. Sensations, and no thought of why he was allowing this, why he didn't just jump up (though any sudden movements seemed beyond him, as stuffed as he was), but he didn't really want to. He just should have wanted to. What he wanted he got when the last of the toast was popped into his mouth, and the last swallow of milk washed it down, and he sagged in his chair. His middle rounded out in front of him, stuffed to the point where drawing a deep breath was impossible, and Sherlock's warm hands rubbed over the taut surface. 

"You should get to bed," Sherlock said finally, a minute later; he withdrew his hands, and Mycroft was brought back to himself a little abruptly; back to a racing mind that had stilled for just a little while. But he could get that back; he was sure that when he was laying down, resting, his overfed stomach would pull him towards sleep. He was too full to do much else; he was sure that, for once, he wasn't going to dream at all. Good or bad. 

"You—" Mycroft began, getting gingerly to his feet and suppressing a groan at the jostle to his belly. But that was all. Sherlock was already gathering the dishes, putting them into the sink, preparing to clean up. The moment was over. 

"I said get to bed." Sherlock gave Mycroft's stretched belly a dismissing pat, and the Omega turned. Bed. His eyes were itchy, and the weight in his stomach was pulling him towards sleep. In the dark, in his bedroom, on the edge of sleep, his own fingers traced the places Sherlock had touched him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kink is arriving!

**Author's Note:**

> ... It's going to get kinky eventually.


End file.
